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3. Dealer Selection

If you’re the jealous type, you may want to stop reading now. If, however, you frequently paw at the pages of our magazine and claw at your keyboard to take hold of the steering wheel we provide for your vicarious adventures, then I extend a warm invitation to keep reading, this is one of the good ones. Simple as this story may be it has the two key ingredients that make enthusiast eyes go wide, jaws go agape and hearts go aflutter: a road and a car. “Why be jealous of that?” you may ask, “I drove a car on a road today,” you may say. The road in this case is a route of my choosing between Pasadena and Monterey, CA on the two-day Tributo Ferrari Pacific Coast Rally. In fact it’s two roads that together make up a route. The car in question is a Ferrari, actually two Ferraris, the 458 Spider and F12 Berlinetta. I’m still smiling.

I arrived quite early so I could see what other products from Maranello would be making the journey. A jet black 458 Spider was on display by the valet, but there’s a very real possibility it merely belonged to a “regular” guest at the lavish Langham Hotel in Pasadena. The first proper participant to arrive was a 599 GTO, wearing what else, red. Oh, this is going to be good. Only 599 of the tertiary GTOs were produced and one would be on the rally with us? What the odds? But no, ten of them appeared, along with seven 599 SA Apertas, the GTO powered topless 599 of which only 80 were made. The eventual arrival of Enzo’s namesake supercar would have presumably been the show stealer, but a 288 GTO cleaner than Gordon Ramsay’s kitchen made the black Hypercar look downright common in comparison.

Just being in the presence of such a gathering of Italian thoroughbreds already ranked this day near the top of my personal bests. As I wondered how it could possibly get any better I got a tap on the shoulder from Krista Florin, the newest addition to Ferrari’s PR team. “Mike, you’ll be starting in the 458 Spider tomorrow. Is that ok?” Santa Clause himself could drop off a gold-plated Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle, a rocket-powered mountain bike and my two front teeth and I’d kick my way through them to pick Krista up and spin her around. “Yeah” trying to keep my composure. “That’ll work.” She hands me the bright red key.

The rally starts. After meandering through the Hollywood Hills, my left foot was begging and pleading to meet the floor. It was expectant father anxious to use every one of the Spider’s 557 horsepower to spring us free from the purgatory of early morning Los Angeles traffic. At lunch I approached Krista and made the request to break away from the rally so we could get the footage we need for the video we were making. It seemed like a believable excuse. “Absolutely! Whatever you guys need!” She’s the best.

A red Ferrari 458 Spider with a full tank of gas and nowhere to be until later that evening left us with only one place to go: Route 33 north of Ojai. A road that’s more pure fantasy than actual highway. I’ve come to this road many times with our old long term GT-R. I cherished those runs as a benchmark, a veritable highlight of my life, professional or otherwise. I’ve harbored serious doubts that those Godzilla runs would ever be bested. But as the pads of my fingertips cradled the wheel of the Ferrari, as the smooth jet-black asphalt met the scream of all eight cylinders echoing off the rock walls I thought, “Godzilla who?”

The 458 is a strange car to explore at first. The steering is both light and lightning quick, which could be misconstrued as uninformative in comparison to the heavy, deliberate steering of, say, a 997 GT3 RS. But as you do push the Italia you soon find that very quick steering is necessary to keep control of a car that is suddenly going at a rate not many others are capable of. There are a handful of stock cars that are faster, sure, but few that provide their operator with the type of confidence required to safely exploit such momentum.

As the sun fell into the ocean I left for one more pass up and down the magic mountain. Like a bad movie cliché the world went silent around me. The black and yellow curves of the road were a hypnotist’s wheel lulling me into a daze. This is driving euphoria. The mountains washed out to a watercolor blur the instant they passed the center of my vision. I darted from from apex to apex like a jackrabbit. If I had one day left on earth I’d spend it driving this car on this road. Melodramatic? Sure. But these were the sorts of thoughts I was having.

Suddenly a distressing thought crept into my mind. Those sterling moments in the GT-R were finally surpassed, but only in a Ferrari. And here I am in a Ferrari, and everything is perfect. So… how do I top this? Where do I go from here? Have I peaked at the ripe old age of 25? It was too sweet a moment to taste any bitterness, but a more cynical palate could easily find it. We hit Santa Barbara just in time for the vehicle coordinator to retrieve the 458 key. I found myself hesitating to relax the muscles in my hand that would be relinquishing said key. When I finally do the motion was greeted with consolation. “What would you like for tomorrow?” I must have looked like a dog hearing a new sound for the first time. I squeak, “Anything would be great, but an F12 would be best.” Without a moment’s delay I’m handed another red key.

The obvious route to take from Santa Barbara to Monterey in a Ferrari F12 berlinetta is the almost criminally beautiful Pacific Coast Highway through Big Sur. Mile after mile of banked turns climbing further up the cliff-side through trees and jagged rock as the mighty V-12 bellows out over the ocean. It would have been fantastic. Unfortunately, PCH is just as obvious a route for every minivan, Prius and RV full of slow-moving sightseers on their way to the campsite they’re in no particular rush to get to. Knowing this, I called on the memory of another spectacular route that would lead us North. Big horses are happier without reigns, after all.

Between the 101 and the 5 (the two major highway arteries that get people to Northern California) there is some asphalt that can best be described as farm access road. With no painted lines, even fewer fellow motorists and plenty of pavement, these roads proved to be the best way to open up the Berlinetta. Sure, I sacrificed the view of the ocean, but at the pace this car and these roads allowed, its best to keep both eyes on the prize.

Before this day, the fastest car I had ever driven was the Lamborghini Aventador. That supercar quarters 691 horsepower to each of its four corners. The F12 Berlinetta becomes an intimidating proposition when you add forty horsepower and send it to only the two rear wheels. That being said, I found Ferrari’s flagship GT to be incredibly compliant. The 458 is commendable for its uncanny ability to translate moderate driving ability into maximum confidence for genuine haste. The F12 offers a similar sensation, but the quartet of extra cylinders and their accompanying 174 additional horses adds to a greater sense of, let’s just call it occasion.

I pushed the F12 hard, very hard. Too hard? Perhaps, but the F12 demands to be driven at an indefinable, nee indefensible limit. It’s happiest playing the devil on your shoulder, prodding you to take the next turn faster. Come on kid, faster. Alice would chase the White Rabbit to his hole in the 458; she’d blast through Wonderland in the F12. Was the big Berlinetta better than the darty Italia? Hard to say. Like that one scientist’s cat, let’s go with both.

I reach the end of the secret road and there’s that feeling again. The day is coming to an end and the car needs to be returned to its keeper soon. Did I do everything right? The girl is on the train and it’s pulling away from the platform. Did I tell her how much I love her before she disappears into the steam never to be seen again? Whether I did or not, I am completely and wholly satisfied. Two days of Ferraris on two of my favorite roads proved to be an experience I’ll never forget. Even if I wanted to. I am immeasurably grateful to the people that made it happen for me. If you’re the jealous type I apologize. But not only did I tell you early on to stop reading please understand that I envy myself.

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